“You stayed here last night, didn’t you!”
It clearly wasn’t a question.
She was in her pyjamas, on her hands and knees, glaring at me under the desk, on my hands and knees, in her son’s pyjamas.
The moment the door had opened, without a word, she’d made a beeline for the desk. Call it a mother’s instinct, here we both were now, on the floor, surveying each other’s faces, my cheeks burning as red as the paisley pyjamas on me.
Maanav’s mother didn’t say another word. She simply got up off the floor and left the room, allowing me to come out from under the desk with a semblance of dignity intact. Luckily, I didn’t run into her again while leaving the house.
After Maanav dropped me off at home, he called me almost immediately. His mother had invited me to have dinner with his family that very evening.
Oh gosh! If I ever marry this man, this will forever be the story of how I met my mother-in-law!
And so, this was how I met Maanav’s mother. Not the best circumstance or object to meet under (I mean, in his pyjamas under a desk?), but I suppose it could have been worse? Cringe.
That evening at dinner, I don’t remember the conversation, but I do remember how lovely they all were. What a relief! His two sisters, one who was just nine years old and the other who was getting her degree at the London School of Economics, were delightful. As nervous as I was, the family was witty and chatty. They graciously made light of what had happened in the morning. The sisters even comically repeated their mother’s now infamous line, “You stayed here last night, didn’t you!”, perfectly imitating her strong Gujarati accent. They were hilarious.
The other thing I remember was the food. I absolutely love Mexican food, and Maanav’s mother had made burritos that evening. I ate around four. I didn’t realise it was a household record, and later on, no one remembered the initial awkwardness, just how many burritos I’d eaten. Even though the day had started so cringe-worthy, it ended up being one of laughter, connection and love. I visited them regularly after that.
A couple of weeks after that first dinner, Maanav’s family invited me to a gathering at their home. They were hosting some aryikas (female monks who followed Jainism), commonly known as Jain sadhvis, who had arrived from India. In honour of the sadhvis, a grand meal was prepared, and friends and family were invited to receive their blessings, eat together, and sing devotional songs with the singers and musicians hired for the occasion.
Although I was about to meet all their friends and family for the first time, I wasn’t nervous at all because Maanav’s family had already lovingly accepted me. And this was a spiritual gathering with devotional singing. I was in my element, of course. I already knew the words to many of the bhajans they were singing, and I sang my heart out with them and even performed a solo ode to Krishna, Jaya Radha Madhava. The sadhvis and elders in the family showered me with love and blessings.
At the gathering, I spent time getting to know the sadhvis. I loved their simplicity. They had short, cropped hair, which I only caught glimpses of as their heads were covered by a drape of their cotton sarees. Although I wore colours, my sarees were either very simple. I wasn’t into fancy prints, embroidery, or anything flashy, and I was enamoured by their plain, cotton, pure-white sarees. As is traditional in Jainism, in order to minimise violence and uphold their core principle of Ahimsa, they also wore a muhapatti, a piece of white cloth over the mouth. Their mouths were covered at all times except for when they ate, which they did in private, so I never saw the lower part of their faces.
One of the sadhvis was truly an inspiration to me; she was only in her twenties, spoke perfect English, and was in London for some time to pursue her PhD and teach Jainism. She was staying at a modest derasar (a Jain temple) in a residential house close to where my parents lived.
I loved hearing her speak at her public discourses at the community centre. I loved her wisdom. I’d begun to visit her at the derasar too. She rekindled my love of reading, and we discussed books, spirituality and life. Maanav had just gifted me the novel, A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth, and I was surprised she’d read it too. I realised there was more to these sadhvis than met the eye. They were not living a repressed, archaic way of life. They were intelligent and worldly, and spread wisdom, love, peace and joy. This sadhvi’s purpose was to lift the veil of ignorance around Jainism and teach people the difference between Lord Mahaveer’s teachings and nonsensical traditions. A logical and practical woman; what she said made so much sense to me.
I also attended her evening Jainism classes along with Maanav’s mother, and soon his mother and the sadhvi asked if I would like to teach the children’s classes as an act of service. I was honoured and readily agreed.
My class was comprised of Maanav’s younger sister and a lot of her friends, and I had an absolute ball with them. Although I was only sixteen years old myself, they, barely 10 years old, were sweet and disciplined from the outset. They respected me and allowed me to teach them everything I learned from the sadhvi, in a way that made sense to their age group.
So, I was in Jain classes and teacher training a couple of evenings a week, and working as an office temp during the day with the National Autistic Society. The plan was to work until the academic year started again in September, then go back to college to get my A levels. The college had already accepted my application. Soon enough, I’d be back on track.
Six months into the relationship, it was summer and Maanav’s twenty-fifth birthday. After all the amazing travel and experiences Maanav had gifted to me, this was my first opportunity to buy a nice gift for him. My mother took me shopping. I chose a gold ring with an Om on it. It was beyond our budget, but my mother said it didn’t matter; she could see that I loved it and wanted me to be happy. Maanav loved the ring and wore it every day.
Maanav’s family threw him a beautifully catered party in their rambling garden, which opened out onto the golf course. They invited my parents to meet them for the first time. I remember my parents were freaking out. They were nervous about what to wear, what to bring and how to act. When my parents arrived, I’ll never forget the look on my father’s face as he walked in and took in the house and the garden. The two families met without any glitches and got on wonderfully.
Inspired by the sadhvi and feeling loved, safe and held by Maanav’s family and finally by mine, too, I started at my new college in the autumn. I was happy and in love. I was sober. No more drugs; I didn’t need them. My head was clear, and I was finally learning about the world through subjects I deeply cared about: Psychology, Sociology, Philosophy and Buddhism.
During the Christmas holidays, after my first term at college, I travelled to India for the second time. This time with Maanav, his family, the sadhvi and some of the Jain school teachers and students. There were 40 children in total, and I was one of the team leaders.
We stayed at the ashram (monastery) in Bihar, where the sadhvis I’d met in London had come from. We visited the polio camp and the eye hospital in the ashram grounds, where they provided free and subsidised treatment and leg braces to the needy. Bihar is the poorest state in India, and it was easy to see the destitution everywhere. We visited the neighbouring villages, and I saw extreme poverty up close. Tiny, malnourished children with matted hair burnt to straw in the sun shyly snuck their heads out from their mud houses. Most were barely clothed, and if they were covered at all, it was by ragged scraps. We were at a village to install a well and hand pump so they could have access to water. Up until then, they’d had to walk miles to fetch water.
I’d lived in a state of deprivation myself, where I hardly had enough to eat, I’d met and talked to the homeless on the streets of London, and I’d seen poverty in the cities during my first trip to India with my mother, but this rural poverty where they didn’t even have water, pierced my heart and truly opened my eyes to how some people in this world live.
No matter how poor I had been, I always had a flushing toilet, clean clothes and a daily shower. If I were ever thirsty, all I had to do was turn a tap. I didn’t know until I saw it for myself that some people actually lived like this.
My heart went out to them. My mind swam with questions. What do the women do when they’re on their period? How do they keep their underclothes sanitary? Do the children even know what an education is? We’ve come to help this one village for now, but what happens when we leave? And what about all the other villages in the world like this without water?
My only peace of mind was that Maanav’s father was the head of the charitable organisation that constantly raised funds for the ashram, the hospital, the camps and the villages. At least those connected with this institution would be taken care of.
We also visited some places of pilgrimage, including the ruins of an ancient university, the main Jain temples atop high hills, and Bodh Gaya — the place where it is said that Lord Buddha attained enlightenment. I’d never practised silence before, nor had I even heard of it as a spiritual practice, but I remember that on this pilgrimage, once we entered each holy site, I became silent. I dont know why, but I didn’t feel like speaking for as long as possible afterwards.
The stay at the ashram and the month-long trip were an unforgettable experience for me. My students and I learned a lot. I became more grateful than ever for the blessings in my life and the opportunity to serve others.
Towards the end of our trip, on New Year’s Eve, the children and I performed an evening of comedy and songs for the sadhvis and Acharya ji (the head of the monastic order). That night, after the performance, we all lined up to receive Acharya ji’s blessings, and when Maanav and I bowed at her feet, she, along with the sadhvi whom I’d gotten to know well, said that we should announce our engagement once we got back to London.
Maanav had, in fact, already tried to propose marriage to me once at the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, but it was a bumbling performance. For one, he didn’t have a ring, so I didn’t take him seriously, and also, there were so many tourists walking around that when he tried to get down on one knee, they kept knocking into him, and he lost his balance. I was in stitches.
Now it was going to be official. We had everyone’s blessing and were excited for our future. On the plane back to England, I was a little travel sick, so instead of playing games with the children or chatting to Maanav, I spent most of it cosy under a blanket, dreaming of my future. I was going to finish my A levels and go on to University. I loved all my classes and was looking forward to learning more about the mind, humanity, religion and spirituality. I wanted to make a difference in the world just like the sadhvis were doing, just like we had done on this trip.
But once we were back, as enthusiastic as I was, I didn’t make it to my first day back at college. I didn’t make it to the second day either… nor the third.
(Originally published on os.me on May 8, 2021)